


Permanence

by varooooom



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Animal Death, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varooooom/pseuds/varooooom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only one thing that can break Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Permanence

**Author's Note:**

> So this is fucking awful.

The cell is small. He has to buckle his knees if he wants to lay across it - which he doesn't, because the concrete is ice cold and almost always wet. If it isn't his own sweat or blood or urine, it's the buckets of ice water they toss through the bars to get him to calm down, to stop screaming or crying or banging on the bars. Sometimes it's a hose for no reason at all, and it's always cold, always; he thinks there might be snow on the other side of the brick wall. He can't tell. He doesn't know where he is.

He doesn't know _who_ he is. He just knows that it's cold and the cell is small and he isn't ' _behaving satisfactorily_.'

Good. Let them struggle and argue and debate the merits of continuing the ' _experiment_ '. He might not remember why, but his only instinct is to fight these fuckers until he dies. And he _is_ going to die. He - he died already, fighting them, right? He was -

No. He wasn't - they won't break him. He doesn't fight for them, he fights for the Sun, something golden and bright even if he doesn't remember what it looks like. The cell is small and there's no window and he doesn't remember the warmth of sunlight or what it looked like breaking through ratty curtains in a Brooklyn apartment no bigger than this cell, but it's cold and he fights for summer, not winter. He lives for summer and - and he'll die in winter. They can beat him and torture him and burn away his mind, but they won't break him.

They tell him the Sun is gone. He doesn't believe them.

The shocks come and they hurt, but it doesn't work the way they want it to. His mind blanks and all that's left is pain and static, empty white space between his eyes that can't see for minutes to hours afterwards. Time hasn't been a concept to him since he died, since he - since. Since ever, maybe, maybe it's always been winter. But he doesn't believe them when they said the Sun died a long time ago, and the shocks aren't providing ' _satisfactory results_.' They argue about loyalty and the strength of spirit, a will of steel, and for the briefest moment, he gleams with pride like summer days spent sweating on the bank of a river too filthy to swim in. He smirks and they beat him and they put him back in the cell.

He only ever leaves the cell for the torture, so it becomes his only sense of normality. The cell is small. It's cold. The bars rattle if he shakes them and the smell doesn't wash away with the hoses. He has to bend his knees if he wants to lay down, but he doesn't, he doesn't, he won't lay down for them. They'll drag him out and they'll break his bones and burn his flesh and wipe away the sound of his name from grinning red lips, and they'll bring him back here, over and over. He will never lay down. This is normal. This is his life. His death. He will die in winter and that's - that's fine. That's how it should be. How it was.

But there's still sunlight in winter. It's just hidden away, where you can't see it, and sometimes you catch glimpses -

\- a small body dragged through the hallway with a bag over its head -

\- the sounds of screaming echoing off of the concrete for minutes, hours, days ( how long has he been here? who are they torturing? have they found another experiment? will he finally be allowed to die? ) -

\- until finally, the cell door opens and they don't drag him out but toss something in. Something small and ragged, a thin body in clothes too big for its wiry frame. The body takes up a third of the cell, limbs sprawled about and unmoving. He thinks it might be dead but groans come from beneath the bag on its head, painful groans that he recognizes because his voice makes them too sometimes. 

It doesn't make sense. There are new faces when they drag him out of the cell, when they test whatever new method of torture they've concocted just to see what sounds he'll make _this_ time, but they're never on this side of the bars. When they kill the bad ones, the ones that hesitate a second too long or the ones that protest a fifth shock in this sitting, it's a simple bullet to the brain ( no time to scream, no time to beg, and blood all over him that they don't wash away, there's always blood on him and it isn't always his - ), not this, not. They don't hurt them the way they hurt him, so why did this hurt this man? Why did they put him in the cell?

A particularly harsh wheeze comes from inside the bag and something stutters in his chest, something distantly familiar that has him reaching out for the body. Before he can reach it, though, the door opens and he freezes, expecting his turn, ready to fight or scream or stay stubbornly silent when they stab needles through his skull again - but they grab the body instead and he hears weeping and he's as surprised as they are when he shouts "Wait!"

They don't. The screaming lasts for hours and echoes in the cell and in his head.

This time, when they toss the body into the cell, he scrambles to a far corner to make room. The cell is small - he has to bend his knees if he wants to lay down, and this body takes up most of the ground because it isn't moving, it isn't sitting up or fighting back the way he does. He wonders if this is ' _behaving satisfactorily_ ,' and a surge of resentment for this weak and battered body rises in him for the shortest moment before a rattling sob shakes the entire body. Panic seizes him and he doesn't know why, but a sudden and fierce instinct tells him that he needs this man to be alive. Stronger than the instinct to fight until he dies; he _needs_ to protect him.

He reaches for the body and gets the bag off his head - catches a glimpse of blond hair matted with blood, of a strong jaw and red lips, before the body is dragged out of the cell again. He stands and tries to follow after them, asking them to ' _stop_ ' and ' _wait_ ', but the door slams shut and the ice water leaves him convulsing on the ground until he forgets about the body and the Sun behinds the clouds.

Time passes. He doesn't know how much time, but normalcy is the cell, the stench and the cold and way his cries echo back at him and go nowhere, and the torture. They try drowning him and shooting him and they cut more of his arm away while he's still awake, maybe to see how long he lasts before passing out from the pain ( not long ) or maybe because they need to ' _start final preparations_.' He doesn't know. None of it means a thing to him because he won't break and he doesn't remember. He doesn't remember why he fights. He doesn't remember his name.

He thinks he remembers the Sun.

There was a body, once, something bright and impossible that he hung among the stars. A body that was crumpled in an alley or a parking lot or - or the cell, taking up most of the floor. He doesn't remember that, but he thinks he remembers blond hair and red lips. The reminder comes when the body is thrown into the cell, and it lays there, unmoving. He pulls the bag off of its head and finds blond hair, a strong jaw and red lips. A broken nose and blood all down his chin - it _is_ a male, a boy, young or old and part of him doesn't remember the difference between the two because he always seemed so much bigger, so much older and wiser and stronger than the Sun.

He's broken, now. His breathing is harsh and he doesn't move, even when he nudges at a frail shoulder beneath a big brown coat that belonged to him when he was younger. Or - he doesn't remember those things, not really, but the sound of a name comes to mind just seconds before they come for the body again. The name ' _Steve_ ' echoes off of the concrete when he reaches his arm through the bars as they drag him away.

The body doesn't come back but the name stays. He doesn't know anyone named Steve - doesn't know any names at all, because they don't exactly exchange pleasantries before they snap his arm and tell him to reset it himself if he wants it to heal. He forgets about the body between electroshocks and the drownings, but a name rattles around in his bones when he shivers in a ball on the floor of the cell. He thinks it's winter and he's going to die, he wants to die, please let him -

Days pass, or maybe no time at all, and then the body returns. This time, he immediately pulls the bag off of its head and rolls the body onto its back. The chest rises and falls in shallow breaths that can't be enough, not for this small of a body, and he wishes he had something to cover it with. At least the body is clothed; they keep him naked most of the time, or give him pants to fight in when they throw him bruised and broken into a cage with a dog that will make him its first meal in days if he doesn't snap its neck in time. He has pants now and he contemplates trying to slip them over the body's second-hand shoes the kind old broad down the hall gave them for moving her furniture, because he needs to protect him from the winter chill. He needs to keep him safe.

But they take him away and the screams last longer than his own as he rattles the bars, begging them to stop.

When they shove him down into the chair and have him strapped in place, they ask him about the body. They ask why he begged them to stop, and he doesn't have an answer, he doesn't remember and he doesn't know why. He doesn't know his own name but he knows he wants this boy to live, _needs_ to protect him. All he says is ' _please_ ,' and they seem pleased with this; they smile before they electrocute him until his entire body is on fire and the world burns away.

He wakes up and the cell is too small for both of their bodies. They're pressed up together, both of them beaten and bloody, but he doesn't stop to consider his own injuries before he pulls the bag off of its head and runs his fingers through blond hair. "Steve," he says, "Stevie," and tries to make himself as small as possible to make room for him. He gives him most of the bed they share on nights when it's too cold to keep the hollow cough out of his lungs, so he doesn't mind crouching in the corner to watch the uneven rise and fall of a narrow chest. He promises that he'll live, he'll get him out of this, and he knows it's true. This is what he lives and dies for. The boy will live. He feels proud of this fact. The Sun still shines in winter, even when it's cold and frozen and barely breathing on the ground. There's still sunlight behind the clouds.

They take both of them together when they come, and he's crying before the first blow lands on the sickly little frame. He begs and pleads and they shock him while he watches, helpless and writhing in pain but struggling to stay conscious so the Sun doesn't go away. They make him watch and their screams overlap until he forgets which is which, whose hurt belongs to whom, why they're doing this what do they want from them why won't they stop he'll do anything just please oh god you're killing him.

He's still crying and he doesn't remember why by the time they lock him back inside the cell. The floor is covered in blood that isn't his and no one listens when he shakes the bars and begs and screams and passes out from pain and exhaustion.

When he wakes, he's in the chair again. Maybe he never left at all, he doesn't - he can't remember. The only things he knows is that the cell is small and it's cold and he has to protect summer from winter. They ask him about 'Steve,' and he doesn't know, he doesn't remember - but he has an iron will and all he says is ' _please_ '. They smile and nod and make promises he won't remember, but he behaves and lets them hurt him and doesn't look away when they put a bullet in a small blond man's head.

No time to scream, no time to beg. There's blood on him and a gun in his hand. He doesn't remember his who he is, he doesn't remember why he's fighting.

But it's winter, and the Sun still shines behind the clouds. He'll live for summer and die for winter, and it'll be okay. He made a promise.


End file.
